[Well, Merry Christmas, Boys and Girls. I hope you've all been good, because Santa is on his way, and the Air Force is reporting. This is Lt. Col. Merriweather from NORAD reporting that we have just sighted an airborne sleigh crossing the dew line. It appears to be drawn by reindeer, and piloted by a jolly looking fellow in a red and white suit ...

Rain Heard Outside the Open Window of the Motel Room, by Charles Carreon

Sweet passion,Now the rain comes down,The plashing rivuletsenchant the ear,the night air pausesand tastes itself,branches dripping,water gathering in hollows,marked with glints of moonlight --In every niche of water -- A Moon.

oh I think and reese's cups we aremellow chocolate people with peanut buttercenters so creamy smoothWe are eightin a car we feeljust like a mobile snackbartwo for a dime andreese's cups we areand headed for where?out to the darkness in a candy carwith a failing transmissioncould it be for lack of orange juice?out of the car nowwalking for a long timeonly six reese's cups nowtwo we left back in the carloving and melting togetherOn to the castleWith big power lines beside usbabbling their high tension talkthe very finest musicwe listen then stagger onfeeling melted by the moonjust stumbling along and wonderingjust what are those little thingsall over the ground?your flashlightand oh god! they're really thereand look like octopiwe walk on and go through a very strange dry lakelooking like the moonand our feet frozenwe stagger to the truck andho there is the candle and let'sbuild a firewe do and it is a very nice firewith red and white honeycombs and blue fringeah a patriotic fire!we sit about and warm ourselves and watchthe fire acting strangelythen I stand and say to reese's cup Lizwe're gonna have'ta go andshe says yeah the sun's got an hour to go yetbefore it's gotta get upso Fred shows us the road and the power linesand Liz and I go floating down the road so happytogether and our chocolate aliveour peanut butter vibrant!

This butterfly, black-specked, cinnamon winged,Hangs from a long-stemmed grass flower,purple-petalLed, dipping low with the weightOf this pretty, nectar-loving bug with wingsSpread flat as those in a collecting case.Together they dip heavily as a breezelifts and settles them on a draught.

This green, delicate, segmented leg belongsto the spider, clinging to the swaying stem,Clutching the pretty creature at the neckwith strong mandibles.

Autumn comes,colors, greys,winds.Scraps, slivers andRich expanses of blue skyFilled with transparent,beautiful light,The sun,floating, liquidas a reflection in a pondAnd all of usaimless as leavesscattered by the breeze ...In love with the time,the space,Stretching in every direction unmoving.

And everything that moves,Wind, leaves, evergreen boughs,the sun, the shadows,Moving in the same direction,a river flowing steadilyto the mouth of the falls whereeach separate thingtakesthe plunge,dissolving into the roaras the sun's pure lightbreaks open --A ball of miracles --Gleaming fragmentsfill every eyewith no end of intricacy,showingwhat's hidden inside,Leaving uspierced through with wonder,Transfixedby something lovely,clear,complete.

The fierce baying of the wolf In the hours between midnight and dawn, You in the old pea-coat of slavery, Emblazoned with the hash-marks on the sleeve, The names of your comrades inscribed In small letters on the inside lapel. The loving embrace of the son who is gone, The broken hammer returned to the forge and remade, Between the heart and mind, nails.

(Note: At around 3:33 a.m. on October 6, 2008, I woke from a vivid dream. I was at my mother's house, and she gave me the old pea-coat I'd worn in military school. On the arm some numbers were marked crudely, and on the inside lapel, the names of my old friends were written in small handwriting. I was delighted to have the coat, and put it on. My son Joshua was in the bathroom, taking a shower. My mother told me to eat half the food that was on my plate – a burrito and a cheese enchilada, and to leave the rest for Josh, but I said no, that I would go out to eat and he could have all of it. I put the enchiladas that she had cut for me back on the plate. I saw that Josh had already eaten a bite of the burrito, and was glad it was still warm. Joshua was in the bedroom, a little boy with his long hair cut in bangs, and told me excitedly about some poetry he had written with his friend Sam. I said it was really good. We hugged, passionately, with the sincere, aware delight of knowing that we were really hugging, that he was right there in my arms. Then he began to recite some very powerful poetry, very beautifully, with a confident delivery. As he reached the last line, his lips were smiling in triumph, like he knew he had impressed me. When I awoke, the last line echoed in my head, “Between the heart and mind, nails.” I couldn't forget it, but only heard the rhythm of the preceding lines, so I played the rhythm in my head, and the words fell into place instantly. I wrote them down in the dark, thinking I'd need to adjust them to get them to scan properly. But when I read them, the rhythm was perfect. Some tears ran down my face, and waves of feeling rippled through my whole body. I was happy. Joshua passed away in a car accident sometime between three and four a.m., February 17, 2006. In my mind, this poem that is very much in his style, is his gift to me. I share it with you as he no doubt intended.)

Well the Buddhists thought they owned the whole damn field, But she borrowed a monster truck to make things real, And when they saw how things were lookin' They just started bookin, Straight for the parkin' lot.

Well she poked old Kusum Lingpa right in the eye, Fixed up Segal with a beerful of lye, Smoked out Cathy Burroughs with her lace and leather, Frowned her brows And made Arch Stanton act better, So they backed up a little, Then they revved up a lot, Which is when she peeled out with her Hemi hot.

This Buddha wisdom we so admireIs likened to a funeral pyreConsuming all,It does not leave behindA library.The eruditehave nothing to fear from Nirvana;it is farther awayeach day.This literary clubwe so enjoyis just a ployto avoid taking a walkin the park.